My Little Socratic Fly

She's got AIDS and she's homeless and usually drunk.
Her hope for the future is just about sunk.
She lives for the moment and calls me a punk
as she meanders aimlessly about town.

Red, white, and blue eyes and complexion so pale,
the breeze blows her away 'cause she's thin as a rail.
Cops won't arrest her; they don't want HER in THEIR jail.
Yet, she always smiles, I've never seen her frown.

She's paid for her freedom, paid the full price.
Still she attracts men (okay, so they're mice).
If they ask her, she'll give it, won't even think twice:
withholding the truth, yet, she doesn't lie.

She's got authorities worried. She's labelled a threat.
She's symbolic to me of the great national debt.
Though I don't know her name, at least, not as yet,
I call her My Little Socratic Fly.

this just happened to catch my eye cause of the updates in this group..this is a good poem right here, and i like the style of it..how the last word doesn't rhyme with the rest...but the story itself is a good one. very good.

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Shall this be my last solace?
Or shall I go with my dreams?
The last haven for me.
Reality pulls.
I can't leave.
Shall I don a mask?
With a bright smile and sad eyes.
Shall this be my retreat?
Reality screams.
This haunting Banshee,
Wants me.
I can't go.
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